Stranded Series (Book 5): Into The Gulf

by Gray, W. S.

  Someone began climbing the ladder. Enzo barked a warning at them in French.

  They didn’t listen.

  Enzo shot them.

  As the person fell back, the crowd unleashed an angry howl of protest. The collective ire of the mob raised itself into the air, creating a deafening, raucous wave that stunned the senses.

  “Back inside,” Enzo yelled, again roughly grabbing Trey.

  As he retreated back into the armored safety of the vehicle, Trey noticed brilliant lights flooding the area. Their intensity was such that they partly blinded him, despite the fact that he wasn’t even looking at them. Then a high-pitched, ear-piercing sound penetrated and disrupted the air around them.

  “What the fuck was that?” Trey asked, shrinking down into his seat as the vehicle began to accelerate away from the scene.

  It wasn’t long, however, before the vehicle stopped again.

  “Zombies this time. You ready to shoot?” Enzo asked, brushing past him.

  “Why can’t we just drive over them?” Trey asked, nonetheless following behind the only man he could communicate with in their small team.

  “What’s the fun in that?” Enzo asked. Going to the back, he began firing. He discharged several rounds into the fast-moving zombie horde. “Take the left side,” he shouted.

  Trey positioned himself on the other side of the small area at the back of the vehicle. He almost tripped over one of the remaining packages of bottled water as he did so. Aiming his rifle, he squeezed off several rounds, watching as the zombies fell. “Have to aim for the heads,” he said, not even sure why he felt the need to make such an obvious assertion.

  But it helped guide him, nonetheless. He aimed for several of the creature’s heads, watching them explode into a fine red mist as the bullets impacted them. A warm rush of adrenaline flooded his veins as he engaged the enemy. In a way, he enjoyed it.

  Trey was taking the fight to the real enemy.

  And every time he downed one of the undead sons of bitches, he got a jolt of giddy excitement.

  Suddenly, a ferocious roar filled the air. The second vehicle had arrived. And a gunner in the turret unleashed a volley of fire on the horde.

  Trey watched with horrified fascination as the undead monsters began to fall. The stumbled and died on top of each other, forming large piles of diseased corpses. The ones struck by the amazing flurry of rounds did a macabre dance as their arms flailed and their limbs were separated from their humanoid bodies. Blood spurted out of them as they writhed and cringed.

  Seeing a tall, blonde zombie with thin arms crawling toward the vehicle, Trey broke free from his trance. He watched as the creature, it’s lower half little more than a blood-soaked nub, inched forward, growling as it approached the large military truck.

  Aiming carefully, he shot the zombie in the head. But not before noticing the pocked, scarred flesh. There was something about the wounds on the creature that gave him pause.

  But Trey had to quickly discard the thought as a new wave of the monsters emerged from behind a copse of trees.

  His magazine ran out. He fumbled through his vest, finally retrieving a new one. His hands sweaty and shaky, Trey wasn’t able to quickly reload. Nonetheless, he finally managed to do so. And as soon as he had, he rushed to fire more rounds into the enemy’s ranks.

  Finally, Enzo turned and motioned for Trey to return to the relative protection of the vehicle.

  They began driving again.

  “Whew!” Enzo yelled, an elated smile on his face. “Yes!” he said.

  Breathing heavily, Trey smiled back at the Frenchman. He nodded vigorously. Despite the monosyllables, he understood exactly what it was the other man was experiencing. It was the high of combat. The rush of glory that accompanied dealing death to one’s foes. It was something quite unlike Trey had ever felt before, in his quiet, staid life as an intellectual property attorney. Sure, he’d had some fun moments, when he’d been in tense negotiations with assholes who really deserved to be taken to the cleaners. But never in his wildest imagination would he have ever even dreamed of such a euphoric high as what one felt during a fight for your life.

  “I fucking love that,” Trey said.

  And he did. The only thing that disturbed him, in the most remote hinterlands of his bug brain, was that he was becoming almost addicted to it. He’d become so used to that sensation being an almost constant thing that he felt weird without it. He always needed to chase the next rush.

  Trey wasn’t sure if he’d simply relented to his daughter’s demands because he wanted her to be happy.

  As they drove along, Trey wondered if he’d perhaps said yes because he’d secretly wanted to go outside the wire.

  “Hey, you did good,” Enzo said. “I’m happy. The other guys…” he shook his head. “They weren’t convinced you had it in you,” he said. “And it wasn’t any better when you started…” the man began to laugh heartily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, waving a hand in the air. He’d fallen over and was leaning against the wall, tears streaming down his face.

  “What?” Trey asked, a little miffed, but also confused.

  “Your… your reaction… to the pack…” Enzo said, a fresh wave of peals overtaking him.

  Trey frowned. He knew he’d been a little awkward with the heavy pack, but…

  Suddenly, the vehicle stopped once again. Without needing to be prompted, Trey got up and went toward the back. He unslung his rifle and tensed, readying himself once again for an attack.

  However, he saw that they’d been once again surrounded by desperate humans. Trey instinctively began tossing the remaining comestibles to them. He bent down, grabbed a case of water, and hucked it over the edge. Then he took a box of what appeared to be cheese crackers threw it to the waiting crowd. The physical exertion helped distract him from the harsh reality endured by those around him.

  If he’d stopped to ponder the profound suffering the mob surrounding him were experiencing, Trey probably wouldn’t be able to function.

  And so it was that he lost himself in the mission.

  However, he paused when he noticed Enzo begin climbing down the ladder.

  Looking in the direction of where the man was heading once he’d managed to reach the ground, Trey raised his rifle. He shouted out warnings as people approached Enzo, hoping that his tone alone would be sufficient to deter the mob. He hated the fact that he couldn’t speak the native language. It was beginning to get in the way of things. And, as Trey watched Enzo rushing to the aid of a pale young man wearing a dirty red ball cap, he felt a twinge of panic.

  What if Enzo got hurt?

  Then Trey wouldn’t be able to talk with anyone on the base.

  His arms quivering, his mind quickly going bankrupt trying to chase all the past-due thoughts attacking him, his body tense, Trey struggled to keep his aim locked on the crowd.

  The second vehicle drove up. Upon its arrival on the scene, it flooded the area with brilliant light.

  Reaching up instinctively to shield his eyes, Trey panicked. He couldn’t see Enzo. His dependence on the man for communication while his father was away trying to rendezvous with the French frigates was such that he felt intensely afraid by not being able to see the man.

  Jumping down, he landed hard. His knees protested. An agonizing pain lanced his senses. Trey pushed through it. He raced toward Enzo’s position, shouting as he went. His ears rang. His body pulsed with excitement. Trey fired at something that moved in his peripheral vision.

  Grabbing the sleeve of Enzo’s uniform, Trey began dragging the competent French combat veteran back toward the Buffalo.

  It was only when he’d paused to turn back that he realized something was wrong.

  Enzo’s pallid face and pained expression confronted him. Sweat poured down his aquiline face. He grimaced when Trey held out a hand. The mob, seeing that the supply of food had been paused, began slowly encroaching upon their position. The soldier in the turret of the vehicle behind t
hem began screaming in French. Then he opened fire, sending several of the desperate, hunger-ridden humans to their deaths in an instant.

  Trey, grunting, decided to bend down and pick the man up.

  Which was no easy feat.

  The former intellectual property lawyer, who’d only recently demonstrated how out of shape he was when confronted with a mere soldier’s pack and some body armor, bent low and began putting the man over his shoulder. Trey stumbled. He gritted his teeth and tried to straighten up.

  But he fell forward.

  Catching himself, Trey forced himself to breathe. He needed to get Enzo to safety. Without Enzo, he had no real way to speak with the other French soldiers who his family relied on for their survival.

  Hefting Enzo up, he began very slowly ascending the small ladder that led up to the Buffalo’s secure passenger compartment. Each step sent a new pulse of pain through him. Searing agony ripped through his entire body as Trey fought to get back up into the vehicle.

  But, finally, he got over the edge.

  However, once there, he needed to pull Enzo back into the seating area.

  “Shit,” Trey said.

  The vehicle began moving. It sped through the mob, hitting several of the people in the process. The road became bumpy underneath them, sending Trey flying up several times as he earnestly attempted to assist Enzo back into the cabin. “What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Trey asked. Enzo didn’t appear mortally wounded. He seemed perfectly fine. Just scared.

  Nonetheless, Trey pushed through the pain and finally managed to get the French soldier back into the cabin.

  Falling down onto one of the seats, Trey closed his eyes. He unleashed a heavy sigh. He rubbed his left knee. “I think I fucked up my leg,” Trey said.

  After a while, the silence of his compatriot signaled something to Trey. He opened his eyes and looked at the man. “What’s wrong with you, dude?” he asked.

  “That kid… he fucking bit me,” Enzo said.

  “What? I mean… so?” Trey asked.

  “He infected me, man. He was a zombie,” Enzo said. “You have to…” Enzo gulped. “You have to let me go,” he said. “You shouldn’t have… you shouldn’t have brought me back up here,” he said.

  “Shit,” Trey said. He stared at the floor for several minutes.

  Chapter 8

  “I’m fucked,” Trey said.

  He slammed one fist against the wall. Then, biting his lower lip so hard that it drew blood, he swung his hand around, doing a little anxious jig in the process. “Fuck, that hurt,” he said.

  Trey shot Enzo a glance when the man chuckled. “You’re not in a position to laugh,” he said, his knuckles still pulsing with pain. He sat down, then stood back up again. He started to pace, only to stumble when the Buffalo hit a bump in the road. “Can’t even pace,” Trey grumbled. Returning to his seat, he stared out the window for several seconds, casting intermittent, furtive glances toward the French soldier.

  “What are… they going to think?” he asked, his tone solemn. He turned and face Enzo. Trey understood that the man was unfortunately right. Hard as it would be, the reality was that the group and their important mission could not risk being jeopardized. And, as Trey thought more about the situation, he realized that whatever needed to be done needed to be performed quickly. For no one really knew anything substantive about the virus. How it operated. Incubation periods. How it was effectively transmitted.

  Following on the heels of these thoughts, however, Trey realized that the man might prove useful alive, after all. Seeing as no one had been able to study the virus, Enzo could provide the one living patient they could use for research purposes. Clearing his throat, Trey tried to stall for time as he scrabbled for some way to broach the difficult topic of the man’s seemingly imminent demise. “I mean, you could volunteer for… science,” he said.

  Enzo snorted. He wiped at his face and turned away. He remained silent, his face rigid, for several long moments. When he turned, his eyes were alight with a malevolent, almost violent glow. “No,” he said. “No, I will not be a guinea pig,” he said.

  “You could save…”

  “No!” Enzo said forcefully. “Just kill me,” he said. A tear slid down his cheek as he sat there, his face a solemn mask of tortured, conflicted emotions.

  Why don’t you just do it? Trey thought. But he luckily was able to prevent himself from speaking the words, even as they teetered on the berm of his lips, ready to tumble over the edge. He took a deep breath. Trey knew he needed tact. He needed to think. And clearly. Because there hadn’t been a much more urgent situation since being stranded on the cruise ship with zombies or being cast onto a remote island with virtually no supplies.

  “Well, I mean…” Trey shrugged and looked outside again. Anger boiled in his gut. He clenched and unclenched his fist. The one that didn’t hurt. He tapped one foot one the hard floor. Finally, Trey found the right words to express himself in the difficult predicament he’d had foisted upon him. “If I kill you, none of your buddies is going to believe me,” Trey said. “I mean, honestly, it’s doubtful they’d even know what I said. Since I don’t speak French, and they don’t speak English,” he said.

  Enzo spat out a curse and flung himself back in his seat. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his head. “Shit,” he said, in an unstated acknowledgment of the sagacity of Trey’s words. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said.

  “No, I’m not probably right,” Trey said. “I am most definitely right,” he said. Looking around, he searched for something that he might use to restrain the man. Fear went wild in his veins, like some testosterone-laced teenager in a rage room. He wondered what he’d do if Enzo decided to resist. Would he be able to overcome the hardened veteran in a one-on-one scenario?

  Seeing a pair of white plastic zip ties on the floor, Trey stood up. He tried to act nonchalant. As if he weren’t planning on tying Enzo’s hands behind his back, even if the man didn’t particularly want that to happen. “Can we just wait until we get back to the base?” he asked, attempting to keep his tone even. He took a few steps toward the restraints. “We should be getting close,” he said.

  Suddenly, Enzo spasmed. He went into violent paroxysms. Sweat began pouring down his face. Then he tensed and turned into a zombie right before Trey’s very eyes.

  Bearing witness to the transformation proved traumatic. It was a difficult sight to bear. And it forced him into an odd semi-conscious state, one that locked him in indecision.

  Trey watched as Enzo struggled to maintain some grip of the remaining vestiges of his former self. Enzo sniffed the air almost like some feral dog. The man became jittery. The French soldier’s unfocused eyes darted every which way. He clutched at his chest, clawing at it as he fought the virus hijacking his system.

  Then Enzo rushed forward, growling. He attacked Trey.

  Stumbling backward from the force of the impact, Trey tensed his legs and tried to hold the slavering man back. Barely managing to avoid the avaricious, powerful jaws of the man, Trey looked around, trying to locate his gun. Not seeing it, he belatedly realized the French soldier had his own rifle slung over his shoulder. But how was he supposed to get it? Trey didn’t have time to think. He could only react.

  Enzo drove him backward. Trey’s head slammed against the back wall. Fighting the blackness that pulled at the peripheries of his consciousness, he maintained a feeble grip on himself as he exerted all of his will through his forearm, which he used to keep the man from biting him.

  Thankfully, Enzo had lost the ability to reason. Because, if the man had realized he could just as easily sink his teeth into Trey’s arm as he could his neck or whatever it was he was aiming for, Trey would have been a goner.

  Kicking out instinctively, he forced the French soldier back. Standing, he fought the nausea that assaulted his senses and threatened to have him sacrificed to the deadly virus. Trey saw a knife laying on one of the leather-backed seats. In a brown leather
sheath, the lethal tool had been somehow lost in his previous efforts to locate a weapon. It seemed out-of-place. He wondered how it’d gotten there. Nonetheless, Enzo was already barreling toward him once again, growling and overcome by his sudden appetite for human flesh.

  Diving for the knife, Trey got it. He slid the 6-inch black steel blade from its sheath. Gripping the weapon within one sweaty palm, he tensed, waiting for contact. Slashing with the tool, Trey managed to cut Enzo’s face as he dodged out of the way. He went under the man’s arm, stabbing into his side as he fled.

  Enzo turned. He once again charged. It seemed to be the only tool in his repertoire. Brute strength and overwhelming force appeared to be the only strengths of the infected.

  Which, Trey realized, would be great when the infected was part of a mob. Alone, however, it conferred some advantages on the intended human victim.

  Trey lowered himself just in time, driving forward into the creature’s belly, lifting Enzo’s former flesh suit up into the air. He threw the man’s body, not hesitating to jump atop it as it hit the ground. Trey stabbed Enzo’s face repeatedly, losing himself in the rush of violence. He became blinded by the chemical cocktail. He thrust the dangerous blade deep into the slick, bloodied mien of the man in rapid succession, feeling his heart race and the weight of the knife as he acted with mindless madness.

  However, when he felt the vehicle stop, Trey paused his relentless attack. He blinked. Looking around, the world came back into focus. And he realized with dismay that he was about to be discovered. His crimes were about to be exposed. Looking down at the body underneath him, Trey hit the corpse. “Shit,” he said, collapsing onto the floor. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

  When the back door opened and French soldiers began clattering inside, all Trey could think to do was scream the word ZOMBIE over and over as he curled into a ball and tried to protect his head from the flurry of blows that rained down on him. He grunted and cringed and cried out as the heavy, booted feet of the warriors drove into his sides.